


Gods of War

by comtessedebussy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Pining, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex, Slavery, Swords & Fencing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:05:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comtessedebussy/pseuds/comtessedebussy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world in which the victors in war take their defeated opponents as slaves, Dean and Castiel are warriors on opposing sides. And when Dean's side is victorious, it is Castiel who is his prize. And it is thus that Castiel comes to belong to the man who conquered him.</p><p>The tag for rape/non-con is not for Dean/Cas; it is for one scene, though Dean is present for that scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gods of War

**Author's Note:**

> I based this fic vaguely on the fact that, in ancient Greece and Rome, warriors were in fact often taken as slaves by their victorious opponents. However, the general setting of the fic, in my mind at least, is a quasi-historical, sort of alternate universe Renaissance France, though the accuracy is hardly relevant.*handwaves*

They met in battle.

Castiel thought that he had met a god. He knew the god of war sometimes descended into the melee, fighting among mortals. This man with the green eyes, he must be such a god. His blade was as cold and merciless as a sheet of melting ice, and though Castiel fought with all his strength, he knew well that when a god fought a human, it was usually the god that was victorious.  No matter – if he must fall in battle, then what better way than to be struck down by the hand of an immortal warrior?

And then, alas! He was gone, swept away by the course of battle before the outcome of their engagement was decided. Castiel turned to defend himself from the side, and before he knew it, the god-like figure was gone – fled, perhaps, back up to celestial heights. Alas. For though they knew each other for mere minutes, for though they had likely been, as Castiel thought, a god and a mortal engaged in battle, Castiel would always remember that they had met as equals.

…

Castiel felt naked.

Standing in the tall, lavish throne room of a glittering court, he was surrounded by courtiers in layers of expensive garb, velvet and jewels and feathers. And he, wearing simple black.

But that was not why he felt naked.

They had taken his sword.

He remembered how he had felt the tide of battle turn. A warrior such as him, sometimes there were things he could just feel. And he had simply felt as their victory slipped like sand through their fingers. He fought on and on, disregarding the shoulder wound that forced him to change sword hands, he took on two or three opponents, but it did not matter. He could not single-handedly fight the ocean.

He decided he would rather drown in the onslaught than wash ashore, a sad castaway without a fate. He glanced around the battlefield, looking for his green-eyed god, for he knew he must fall, and he wished for that final ecstasy of falling by his hand.

But Castiel could not find him, and it was with a nondescript man that he found himself engaged. He felt his own thrust parried and knew what was to come; he watched his opponent’s blade swim towards him through the air as his own hand moved in slow motion, and yet the blow he awaited never fell.

 “Surrender,” he heard, that word he had hoped never to hear. He shook his head.

And yet his opponent declared him “my prisoner,” as if Castiel had not disagreed. He wanted to throw himself upon the enemy blade, but alas, the moment was gone, that moment when he could die as a warrior would. He bowed his head sadly.

And now he stood here. He wondered why he had been singled out thus from among the remnants of the army he had fought with. They were all taken captive, and he knew what awaited those who did not manage to die in battle. Former warriors made for convenient slaves – strong and hardy, as well as good prizes to show off, a reminder of the glory of victory. That was his fate too, he had no doubt of it.

King Godfrey sat on his throne, and the mere sight of him made Castiel seethe with rage. This man was the reason he has lost everything. It was his armies that had invaded Castiel’s homeland in their thirst for conquest, his armies that had enslaved his people and taken his comrades prisoner. Then again, Castiel knew, the blame also rested on him. He had failed, just as his comrades had failed, to hold off their enemy, to defeat it. And now said enemy gloated on his throne. He looked like a peacock, Castiel thought, too many gold chains around his neck and too many rubies on his sword to make the thing useable. Castiel hated men like him, men who wore swords but could not use them.

Then Castiel sees _him._ The god with the green eyes. Castiel is surprised that every courtier does not bow, for he carries himself like the true king of the place. He’s not dressed as the others are – rather than silk and finery, he sports simple black velvet, and his sword, Castiel notes, is the one he had in battle. A trusted weapon that, Castiel thinks, rarely parts with its master.

“Lord Dean Winchester,” the herald announces, and everyone applauds. Even the King rises from his throne.

“Lord Winchester,” he beckons, and Dean approaches, making a low bow.

“Behold, the man who turned the tide of battle,” he announces. There is a low murmur of appreciation and more clapping.

“I have a reward that I think you will find quite fitting,” the monarch continues, and Dean inclines his head. The king gestures, and the two men who stand guard over Castiel bring him forward. Dean glances at him, and Castiel swears he sees a momentary fissure in the composure the man sports. At least, his eyes widen slightly.

“One of our most prized captives,” the king explains. “I’m told he fought extremely well. I think you will find him a fitting reward for your courage.”

Dean tears his eyes away from Castiel and inclines his head.

“My Lord, it is a generous gift,” he says, and if he feels anything but gratitude, Castiel does not hear it in his voice. Dean – Lord Winchester – makes a simple gesture, and his two guards nod, taking him away. They accompany him to a sad contraption that, perhaps, one day may have passed for a carriage, but which was still, Castiel thought, much nicer than anything he could have expected, and escort him to what will be his new home.

That new home turns out to be a castle. Castiel was expecting something rather more like a chateau – King Godfrey’s land was famed for its fairy-tale architecture and manicured gardens, but the Winchester dwelling-place is a stronghold more than anything else. Not quite a medieval castle – no, the windows are too big for that, the walls not quite thick enough, but it is built of stone which masquerades as nothing but itself, and there are actual turrets and towers. A moat, too, though Castiel notes the bridge is lowered. There are grounds, too, wide, expansive, full of trees and lush green grass, though Castiel sees no flowerbeds traced out with painstaking precision, no shrubs cut into ghastly shapes. He feels a reluctant sense of comfort at the sight.

The guards hand him off to more guards, these ones actually belonging to Lord Winchester, no doubt, and he’s escorted to his room. He finds, to his surprise, that it’s not a dungeon, though it’s certainly small, sparsely furnished, and locked from the outside.

Castiel sits and thinks.

He knows how this goes, of course. When a man went to war, he gambled his life, his honor, and his freedom. Every warrior hoped for victory, but there was also an honorable death to take second place. What every honorable man, every warrior dreaded, however, was to survive to see the other side’s victory. Stripped of his martial glory, as well as of his sword, he became nothing but a possession. That was how the world had gone on for as long as he could remember. Each victory he himself had seen, there were always captives, men brought in, some ashamed, some relieved. He had known, of course, that that was the gamble he took each time he rode into battle, but he had always been so convinced that he would manage to die first. He had gambled all on that hope, and lost.

He sits in his room, waiting for Lord Winchester to call him. Afternoon wanes into evening slowly, and he watches the sun sink. The twilight brings with it an interminable sadness, a thought of death and the end of days. Slowly the night creeps up on silent feet, studding the sky with bleak white gems. Castiel paces – he had never been able to sit still. Anytime now, he knows, his new master will call him. Doubtless he would want to break in his slave as soon as possible.

He also knows that he will not make it easy. He will fight and resist, and whatever man thinks he could simply be handed possession of Castiel would learn how hard it would be to tame the fury within.

But the summoning does not come. Night casts its stillness over the dwelling, and he hears horses, footsteps – doubtless his master returning – but no summons. Finally, he sleeps, and is startled when the morning permits him to sleep as late as his body desires.

Lord Winchester summons him the next day, and Castiel obeys, though he stands defiantly before his Lord, eyes blazing. Dean takes all of this in, his warrior’s stature and uncompromising stance, the daggers that his eyes shoot in every direction, and Castiel could swear he smiles, though it’s quickly hidden. At the very least, Castiel is sure Dean is remembering something, for his eyes mist over for a moment.

 “Well, then,” Dean begins, sounding like he has  no idea how to proceed, though the questions he asks and the authority with which he does so suggest that this is not his first time interrogating a slave.  “Your name?”

“Castiel,” he answers curtly. He’s well aware that he should address Dean with some kind of honorific, “sir,” or “master” or “my Lord,” but that, Castiel thinks, is a submission that Dean will have to force from him. Strangely, however, his “Lord” does not remark upon this lapse.

 “Castiel.” He tries out the name.

 “Well, Castiel, what do you know how to do?”

“I know how to fight,” he replies. Another impetuous remark, and surely this one will earn him a blow.

But it does not. Dean returns a simple “I know. But besides that?”

Castiel shrugs. “I know how to look after weapons. I can read and write, naturally. In several languages. The usual accomplishments of a man of a rank such as yourself.”

He knows he’ll be punished for that statement, if for nothing else. His rank may have once been equal to Dean’s, above him, but that was hardly the case.

Strangely, though, that, too, is something that Dean lets pass.

“Hmm. Well, in that case, Jo will show you where the armory is. I’ve a fine collection of weapons, but they need looking to.” He pauses, looks as if he’s considering how to proceed.

“Oh, and Castiel,” he says. “I’m not going to bother with all the branding and collaring business you were doubtless expecting. However, I would point out that this place is well guarded, that you have absolutely nowhere to go, and that the lovely city I’ve chosen for my dwelling place has a _very_ extensive royal guard who knows what you look like.”

And with that, Dean stalks off, leaving him. Castiel stares after the man. He had expectations for what today would entail, and they most certainly did not come close to being met.

That night, Dean does not send for him either, or the next. Then again, perhaps Dean was not interested in men, or in sexual pleasures, but if that was the case, why was it that a King had given his honored Lord such a useless gift? He had been a prize in battle, he knew – a warrior of rank, one that a man such as Lord Winchester should be glad to show off, but slaves had other uses besides being shown off as pretty spoils of war.

Of course, Dean has set him performing simple tasks as well – polishing, cleaning, sharpening weapons, copying out some texts on fighting and hunting in Dean’s library, translating a few old tomes from Latin. They’re engaging tasks, if not particularly fulfilling, though Castiel thinks it is hardly the work of a slave. Surely Dean had other members of his household who could fulfill these functions? Shouldn’t he be doing something like scrubbing floors?  

In a way, Castiel thinks bitterly, it’s almost as if Dean remembered their momentary encounter on the battlefield. As if he refused to treat Castiel as a slave. It was a fitting action for the man who had fought him with such passionate honesty, and it made the reality of Castiel’s situation all the more bitter.  Punished and humiliated, he could fight back, resist in indignation against the injustices heaped upon him. He could refuse to be broken and subjugated, and, whatever the painful consequences, he would at least be fighting. But Dean’s strange omission of him, the strange limbo in which he seemed to possess all the attributes of freedom without the thing itself, twisted like a knife within him. He wasted away under Dean’s kindness, each day meaningless for the struggle it did not bring.

He attempted to hate Dean for it, but found that he could not.

…

Castiel gets to know more of Dean as the days pass by. That is not to say that he and Dean interact much – hardly. Dean passes on tasks to him through a messenger, a servant or page – burnish a particular weapon, a particular map needs to be found in the dusty map room, the like. He hardly ever gives his orders himself, and Castiel does not know whether Dean ever looks over the work he has done.

He does, however, catch glimpses of Dean. He knows that Dean rarely takes a carriage or an entourage – whenever Castiel’s glimpsed him leaving the castle, looking down from a window into the courtyard, Lord Winchester had always been on horseback, eschewing the comforts of a carriage. He entertains few guests, though Castiel does often glimpse him sparring with men he supposed Dean called his friends on the expansive, grassy grounds behind his dwelling. He usually wins the bouts.

He knows that Dean retires late and sleeps late; often he comes home as the dawn is shining its early rays. Sometimes he comes back with a torn cloak or without a hat, and those nights Castiel thinks it’s hardly likely he’s spent the night with a woman. He wonders what Dean does these nights, and he thinks it wouldn’t be unlike the man to take a stroll through the more dangerous areas of town for the hell of it. Sometimes he does come back, towards morning, with a dashing feather in his cap, and Castiel wonders what lady Dean graced with his attentions that night.

Sometimes Dean reads, and when he leaves the tomes out, opened to the page Dean has just abandoned, Castiel recognizes histories and adventures.

Overall, however, Castiel gets a sense of restlessness. Dean never stays in one place much, always pacing, changing rooms, coming and going. He grows used to the sound of boots pounding constantly against cobblestones and to the clang of swords. Those sounds, more than others, hand around Dean, escorting him. Though Castiel will not admit it, though he fights it, those sounds, their familiarity with the life he’s lived himself, always have a way of reassuring him.

..…

 

Eventually, Dean does summon him. The man is bored – Castiel’s heard pacing for what must be an hour, as he sharpened a pair of old swords. There are books scattered throughout the library, and it seems that Dean’s attention has been able to lend itself to none of them.

“Tell me about your life,” Dean demands.

Castiel stares. Partially because he’s surprised by the request, and partly because he does not know where to begin.

“Your country. Its customs. What were they like? How did men settle points of honor? How did you become a warrior?”

So Castiel tells him. He tells him of the way he was trained to fight since an early age, always raised to be nothing but a warrior, for that was what his family did. Their aristocratic glory lay in their martial prowess. He tells of his strict sword master. He recounts the way a duel is usually begun – one throws a glove before one’s opponent – and Dean raises his eyebrows and asks “why?” He tells of the way that duels were once forbidden, and any man who risked his life for honor in a one-on-one engagement was beheaded. In order to preserve the numbers of the king’s armies, Castiel explains. Dean chuckles wholeheartedly at that.

“Do you miss it?” Dean asks.

“What?”

Castiel still doesn’t address Dean with any sort of title, and Dean still doesn’t seem to mind. At first, Castiel had thought that Dean was simply ignorant of these things – perhaps he’s never owned a slave before, perhaps he doesn’t expect that kind of respect. But Castiel quickly learns that isn’t true. He expects his servants to address him properly, and the few times that Castiel had glimpsed Dean in company, he had noted condescension on the man’s face towards what Castiel would agree were certainly his inferiors. In fact, it seemed that Castiel was the only man in the house who addressed Dean as an equal.

“Fighting. Being what you are.”

Castiel glances up at him.

“Yes,” he answers simply. He’s been cleaning and sharpening blades regularly, but it’s been weeks since he actually held a weapon in his hand. Weeks since he flourished a blade and felt the air sing around its sharp edges. He could feel his body falling out of tune, his strength fading and his skills falling to sleep as he spends his days writing and polishing.

Dean grabs a sword from the wall and orders “follow me.” Castiel obeys, and when they’re reached the expansive lawn behind Dean’s dwelling, Dean tosses him the sword. Castiel catches it easily and looks up at Dean in surprise.

“Fight me,” he orders. When Castiel makes no move, he explains “I’m bored. Humor me, Cas,” he says, waving his sword in explanation and, Castiel realizes, giving him a new name. He can’t say he dislikes it.

Castiel bows, as he would before an opponent in an engagement of honor, and takes up a fighter’s stance.

And then they’re away. They had been separated in the heat of battle before either could discover who would be victorious over the other, and now, Castiel supposes, they would know.

Dean is a skilled opponent, which Castiel already knew, of course. He fights with passion and with integrity, throwing himself wholeheartedly into the engagement, his sword an extension of his arm. And yet, even in the frenzy of the fight, no single movement is superfluous, no flourish of the blade too flamboyant.

…

Dean felt as if they were almost back on that battlefield. He was fighting the man who reminded him that he went to war for the ecstasy of balancing life and death precariously on his blade. But they were not at war, and Castiel was not sporting his silver armor; he did not have a shield in his hand, its color an icy blue with an engraving of wings, as if to tell his opponents that he was coming upon them as the angel of death.

But then Castiel did that _thing._  That _thing_ where Dean thought he had him, where he was just about to thrust – it would only cause a minor flesh wound – when Castiel twisted and turned and parried and, before he knew it, his sword was useless at his side as the point of Castiel’s blade pointed directly to his heart.

And this, Dean realized, is where he hadn’t thought this thing through. Giving his… _slave_  a sword to kill him with and an opportunity to do it with. He waited, his face defiant and questioning, wondering what course this would take. They held each other’s eyes, the air still around them. The blankness of Castiel’s face revealed nothing.

Then Castiel withdrew his sword and bowed, as if they had done nothing more than settle a small point of honor. If he noticed that Dean was surprised, he didn’t show it, simply offered Dean the sword. “Take it back to the armory,” Dean ordered, and he went.

…

Their sparring sessions continue after that, almost every day, first spur of the moment as Dean decides he wishes a challenge, and then an almost regular afternoon occurrence. Castiel’s body slowly returns to a warrior’s fitness, and the prowess he was afraid he would lose forever returns as well. Though he dislikes it, he begins to feel gratitude to Dean. Though he still feels each of his days waste away uselessly, bored and stifled, at least Dean grants him these short reprieves when he can return to himself.

Dean seems to enjoy these times too, much more than any time he spends at court and in company. He always sees the man relax and brighten with a sword in hand, dancing to the clang of blades. And still, Dean does not spend a single night with him. He leaves those dark, silent hours to Castiel, and though Castiel had been prepared to fight and claw his way away from any kind of bodily violation, he almost regrets these solitary hours. They let him think and remember, and sometimes he would rather not think and not remember.

…

Gradually, something about Dean changes. It hits Castiel full force one day when, staring daggers into the man as he recounts more of the history of the home he’s lost, he’s startled to see the man blink and look down, unable to hold Castiel’s piercing gaze. This continues, as Dean asks questions and looks away to hear the answers. It’s as if he cannot meet Castiel’s gaze for some reason.

They continue sparring, however. That particular day, the sun beats down on them, but its mercilessness is tempered by the insistent breeze that makes the willows wave sadly in the wind. The sun shines off their blades, and Dean, damn him, has Castiel turned so that the sun is fully in his eyes. He squints, attempting to see Dean and predict his movements without being blinded by the sun or the glint of his sword. Dean successfully backs him away several steps, towards the wall, and though he attempts to sidestep, to change the direction, Dean doesn’t stop. It’s all Castiel could do to keep him at bay today. He feints in between parries, but Dean seems to expect that too, and when had he gotten so _good_? Just a few days ago Castiel had sent his sword flying easily.

Finally, he feels his back hit the wall and raises his sword in a last effort, easily knocked aside by Dean, who presses a blade to his throat. Castiel looks at him, waiting patiently. They’re long past that tension that came with one of them holding a blade to the other’s vital organ – it happened regularly now, and each had learned to wait patiently as the other reveled in their victory before sheathing their weapon.

Seconds pass, and Dean doesn’t move. He fixes his eyes on Castiel’s, and stares at him more intently than he’s done in days. Castiel’s close enough to see the freckles peppering Dean’s skin. His green eyes, a devastating emerald color, glint like sunlight on a blade, and Castiel sees once again the war-god at whose hand he would have been glad to fall in battle.

Then the thing Castiel dared not hope for comes to pass and Dean’s lips are on him. Their touch _burns,_ and he gasps against Dean’s lips, allowing him in, inviting Dean to come and take and consume him in fire. Dean’s body presses against his, sword still between them, and Castiel loves the feel of the cold blade against his skin as Dean consumes him with fire. He wants both, fire and ice, to destroy him in a god-like rage.

Then, as suddenly as he started, Dean breaks away and stares at Castiel, horrified. Castiel feels as if he’s been pierced by the sword Dean had held against his throat moments ago. Without a word, Dean turns and strides away, leaving Castiel feeling empty and cold. He brings a hand to his lips, touching the memory of the kiss. The sun shines down, still in his eyes, and he blinks. The world is too bright, too vivid, to be a dream, and yet the world around him is too calm to have allowed the kind of consuming rage whose brunt he had just felt. Slowly, he picks his sword up from the ground and returns it to its home in the armory.

..

Dean locks himself in his room and considers. If considering meant mentally stabbing himself in the chest.

How Castiel had looked! Windswept and disheveled, full of the exhilaration and the ecstasy of the fight. His eyes had glinted, and their color had reminded Dean of a pair of white wings engraved on a background of icy-blue. Before he’d known what he was doing, he had kissed him, fully expecting to be consumed by a godlike fury. He would accept that fate, if only he could fall in the heat of the moment, in the ecstasy of that fight.

He shook his head. Who was he deluding? He had kissed a man that he _owned,_ with a blade pressed to his throat. He might have given Castiel a weapon, allowed him to fight him as an equal, but the fact remained that Castiel belonged to Dean. And did Dean really think that Castiel would refuse him when he had a blade held against the man’s neck?

He was a coward.

…

Dean does not call him that evening, or for their sparring session the next day. In fact, Dean avoids him outright after that. The next night, Castiel hears a woman’s laughter from Dean’s room. After that, the days pass slowly, one nondescript rising of the sun followed by another. Nothing remarkable happens until the king decides to pay a visit.

Of course, it’s hardly common for monarchs to give house visits to their courtiers, but Dean, as Castiel had gathered, is a particular favorite of the King (though why, Castiel cannot fathom. Dean is so different from the rest of them that Castiel is surprised they do not hate him for his difference, for his effortless revelation of their own inferiority).

Castiel knows he will be called down, that Dean will be asked to show off his prize. Pacing in his room, he awaits the inevitable summons. It is, surprisingly, Dean’s valet who comes to fetch him. He offers Castiel a collar.

“Your master requests that you put this on and answer his summons,” he says, not meeting Castiel’s eyes. Castiel takes the collar. It is simple leather, an elegant “D.W.” etched into it, fastening with a simple buckle. He traces his fingers over the letters and wonders when Dean had had time to acquire a collar. Perhaps he kept several of them? Castiel can’t be the only slave of a man of a rank such as Dean, and yet he seemed to be the only one. What had happened to the others?

He dons the collar. It is not uncomfortable, but he winces when he sees himself reflected in a pane of glass. He looks away quickly, attempting to erase the sight from his memory, though he knows it’s what the others will see.

 Waiting outside the door to the room where Dean has assembled his guests, he hears voices. “Well, where’s your prize, Dean? He’s a very good one, and I hope you’ve been taking care of him well,” the king asks.

“Of course, my Lord,” he hears Dean say. He knocks, walks into the room, bows (he can’t make Dean look bad), stands demurely for the first time since he’s arrived.

“Cas,” Dean beckons, and he approaches his master, taking in the room as he moves. This is the large room in which Dean entertains guests when he has any. There are wide spaces, surrounded by comfortable couches; the walls intersperse wood paneling with fireplaces, and the lush wine-colored curtains are drawn aside to let in the moonlight. Several courtiers lounge, their petite feet clad in shoes with shiny buckles that they’ve taken care to place on pillows. Dean, as he remarks, is dressed in his usual garb – simple black, with boots rather than delicate shoes. The contrast is striking, and suddenly Castiel is grateful that this man is his master.

Dean gestures, and Castiel sits beside him, close enough to allow Dean to place hands on his possession. Dean unabashedly places his arm around Castiel’s waist; Castiel’s wearing a loose shirt, allowing Dean’s fingers to touch skin, and Castiel can barely repress a shiver at a touch that is possessive and still too-light.

 “I hope you’ve been satisfied with him?” the king asks.

“Oh yes,” Dean agrees. “Very satisfied,” he says, running his hands gently up from Castiel’s side to his chest, and it’s all Castiel can do to sit still. “I very much appreciate having him around,” Dean adds, with an unfathomable intonation that Castiel cannot parse. His hand tweaks one of Castiel’s nipples, and all of Castiel’s long-earned self-control deserts him as he lets out a breathless sigh. He doesn’t know if Dean remarks the fact, but the King certainly seems to notice.

“I see you’ve trained him well. How responsive he is to your every touch!”

It’s meant as a compliment, but Castiel feels Dean tense next to him; Dean’s hand, still caressing his skin softly, is all but removed.

 “You know, I never had a chance to examine him in detail. May I?” the King asks.

“Your Majesty need only ask,” Dean replies, and though his tone is polite, the disdain in it is so evident to Castiel that he is surprised no one else remarks upon it. The king beckons to him, and Castiel rises and makes his way over to the king, who sprawls on a wide armchair. He walks slowly, and the king loses patience, reaching out to grab him by the collar as soon as he’s near. The king drags him onto his lap, his hands almost instantly running over his skin, abdomen to chest.

“ _Very_ nice,” he murmurs approvingly as his hands run over smooth muscle. “You force him to stay in shape. ” He runs a hand up Castiel’s thigh, and Castiel forces himself not to frown in disgust.

“I don’t suppose you’d consider sharing him? You know, such a fine prize…” the king trails off.

Dean looks up at the pair of them.  “Your Majesty knows very well that if that is what you desire, I cannot refuse,” he points out, but adds, after a pause and as the king shows no sign of letting Castiel go,  “though I do rather like having him all to myself.”

“Quite understandable,” the King nods. “He is your prize for our victory, after all.” He lifts his hands off Castiel, and Dean gestures towards the door. He takes that as his sign to leave.

Going up to his room, he hears more talk and laughter. Sitting on his bed, he thinks back. He remembers Dean’s hands on his skin, and how they had _burned._ They were possessive, those hands, and yet Dean had seemed so distant, as if he were only running through the motions of something. He had sat close enough to the man to feel his pulse quickening, and yet at the merest suggestion that there was anything intimate between them, Dean had tensed.

Dean, it seemed, was fighting an attraction to him.

Of course, the fact that Dean was attracted to Castiel did not surprise him. Castiel was not a vain man, but he knew his own value. And if he knew Dean as well as he thought he did, Dean shared the same values as Castiel.

Why Dean was fighting his attraction for something he could so easily have, however, was utterly beyond him.

…

Castiel could hear the voices until late, and he had no doubt that Dean went to bed long after he did. At any rate, Castiel knew he rose late the next morning, which he spent ignoring Castiel, as well as the afternoon. Of course, Dean ignoring him was not anything new, but now Castiel knew why, and the knowledge was starting to stifle him. Performing the usual tasks assigned to him, he felt like crawling out of his own skin in impatience every second. He was becoming so utterly _bored_ here, and now that he knew the reasons for Dean’s actions, his boredom was only exacerbated. At least Dean’s advances could be exciting.

Yes, exciting. That was why he was interested in them. _Of course._

Finally, he gets fed up. The next day, he knocks on the door of the library, where Dean is spending his afternoon, and asks politely if they would be having their sparring session today.

Dean looks up at him.

 “Would you like to?” he asks, the most normal question in the world.

“I would enjoy that, yes,” Castiel replies, keeping his voice as free of intonation as possible.

“Hmm. Very well, then. On the lawn in ten minutes?” Dean asks absently, avoiding Castiel’s eyes and looking back at his book.

Castiel nods, goes to retrieve his sword, and waits. Eventually Dean appears, looking utterly unprepared for any kind of fight. He blinks in the bright sunlight and draws out his sword.

“Well. Let’s see what you can do,” he says, with a formality Castiel’s never heard him use.

They begin, and Castiel can almost instantly tell there’s something off about Dean. He’s hardly the man he had met in battle, and most certainly not the man who had so ruthlessly defeated him days ago. He’s distracted, uncertain, and it seems that every time he looks at Castiel, something throws him off. Castiel defeats him so easily that it’s not even a challenge, pressing Dean against the same wall, his own blade pressed to Dean’s neck. He glares at Dean, who refuses to meet Castiel’s eyes. It makes Castiel seethe in rage.

“ _Look at me,”_ he orders. It’s utterly inappropriate, he’s not the one giving orders here, not even if he’s the one with the weapon, but if Dean wants to blow up in incandescent rage, punish him, yell at him, let him. Better than the eternal silence that’s been smothering him.

Dean looks up at him, green eyes wide, but makes no protest about the impropriety of the entire situation.

“You coward,” Castiel accuses before kissing him and taking what, in his mind, he should have had long ago. Dean’s mouth opens to his kiss as his had opened to Dean’s, a fact that Castiel was hardly expecting. He tastes Dean’s lips, slowly, carefully, before delving inside. Dean lets him, and Castiel feels his body sag, relax, under the onslaught. When he pulls away, however, Dean’s back to looking like before, eyes looking anywhere but Cas. Castiel removes the blade from its suggestive place on Dean’s neck, but Dean hardly moves.

“Cas,” he croaks out. He looks up at the man before him gingerly. “I can’t. I _own_ you,” he says, his voice breaking.  

So that’s what it was. Castiel is floored, stunned, shocked, struck down by the revelation as by lightning. He had known Dean was an honorable man, but this – it is almost unheard of.

And yet Dean is such an idiot sometimes. So much so that it makes Castiel angry, because Dean _knew_ Castiel. He knew the man who refused to address his master as such, had known Castiel in battle, had seen his pride. Did he think Castiel would submit just because _Dean_ wanted it?

“I want you,” he says. Dean stares. “I _want_ it,” he demands.  Standing this close to Dean, close enough to count those freckles and lose himself in the green of those eyes, he could even say he needed it.

Dean opens his mouth, but no words come out. He’s shocked too, blinking in surprise and staring at Castiel. He searches Castiel’s face, green eyes finally meeting blue. He must read sincerity there, because something in his face changes.

“Bedroom?” He suggests. Castiel nods.

…

Dean gazes down at Castiel’s naked body. He had not lied – and his King had not lied – when he’d said Castiel was a fine specimen. He has the body of a Greek god, strength wrapped up in soft skin and delicate beauty. Each curve, Dean thinks, formed as perfectly as if an artist had distilled all his ideas of perfection into one form and carved it out of the stone. Castiel had been a warrior in his prime, a chevalier without match, and as a slave, Dean has no doubt that he would be among the first to fetch a jaw-dropping price. But no. He clears these thoughts from his head. Castiel is not a body to sell or a possession to apprize. This body, yes, it belongs to him, but he wants it to be his in an entirely different way.

Castiel smiles as if he knew exactly what Dean is thinking. “You’ve won a fine prize, my Lord,” he remarks.

 “You’ve never called me ‘my Lord’ since you got here. You don’t have to start now,” he scoffs.

“But I want to, my Lord,’ he says innocently, with a playfulness that can’t help but make Dean smile.

Cas is spread below him, eager and impatient, and though Dean desires him ardently, he also cannot tear his eyes away from contemplating the heavenly form before him. It is a body that makes him want to make love, in words and in deeds.

“Have you ever been with a man before?” he wonders aloud.

Castiel shakes his head.

“You will be the first, my Lord.”

“It’ll hurt, you know,” Dean says.

The warning is so utterly ridiculous that Castiel rolls his eyes.

“I’ve spent my life fighting in wars, you know.”

Castiel spreads his legs with an inviting glance, and it’s an invitation Dean can’t resist. He kisses Castiel, one final time, before opening him up. Castiel’s expression hardly changes as Dean inserts a finger, and only transforms into a small ‘o’ of surprise as he adds several more. Dean begins opening him up in earnest, looking at Castiel’s face the whole while through, expecting the man to fall apart with the same ecstasy with which he had kissed, but he simply waits patiently with his face on Dean. He inserts his fingers deeper, fucking Castiel’s body with them, and still Castiel barely responds. Dean frowns.

“My Lord,” Castiel says, and Dean puts aside his worries at Castiel’s inviting glance. He removes his fingers at once and pushes in. He hears Castiel release a surprise gasp as he buries himself in the man’s body, so tight and untouched and yet so perfect around him.

…

Castiel moans.

Dean is inside him, possessing him, claiming his body. Months ago, he would have fought with every ounce of strength he had any claim that Dean made on him, but now all he wanted was to give himself to this man. Dean pounds into him until Castiel feels like he might split in half, destroyed by the man who had spent weeks systematically taking him apart at the seams. He can feel Dean inside of him, stretching his body in unfamiliar ways. There is pain, of course, as Dean had warned him there would be, but above all there is _Dean_ taking pleasure in his body. Dean buries himself in Castiel as if he’s trying to make two into one with each thrust, interspersing kisses with sounds of pleasure, and all Castiel craves is for Dean to never stop making those sounds. He loses himself in the moans of joy that his body elicits from Dean.

His own body craves stimulation, and he allows his own hand to find his erection, moving it roughly in tandem with Dean’s thrusts. He knows Dean is close, and he speeds up, urging out his own climax. Dean comes before him, marking him from the inside, and with that thought, and a few final strokes, he comes.

When the pleasure has stopped racking his body, he blinks up at Dean, who gazes down at him in consternation, and, perhaps, though Castiel cannot fathom why it’s there, guilt.

“My Lord?” he asks, and Dean almost flinches at the words.

“You lied to me, Cas,” he accuses. Castiel opens his mouth in surprise. “You told me you wanted it and then you let me _use_ you. That’s what I was doing. _Using_ you.”

Castiel stares.

“I used you as if I own you – “ he breaks off, shakes his head.

Before Dean knows what hit him, their positions are reversed; he hits the bed as Castiel forces him down and towers above him.

“I wanted this, and I still do.” He pauses, considering best how to explain. “I want to feel your body claiming mine, using it, possessing it, enjoying it, not because of the physical sensations that in itself brings but because I want _you._ I want to feel as if you are a part of me. I want to be _consumed_ by you,” he reveals. He stares down at Dean, as if all his conviction will travel to Dean’s mind with the intensity of his stare.

“I want you to have my body, to come and claim it as if it belongs to you, whenever you desire it. Not because you own me, but because _I_ want it. _I_ want you claiming me.” Castiel’s voice takes on a cold, dangerous tone, as if Dean is the slave and Castiel is the master who will brook no discussion. “Do you understand me? I want you to use my body whenever you desire it. _I want it,”_ he adds, and it is only his tone that prevents him from sounding like a petulant child.

Castiel glares at him, and Dean nods, for he knows that if he does not the figure above him will destroy him with an incandescent rage. The nod is obviously not enough for Castiel, however, since he claims Dean’s lips in a devouring kiss, extracting all the air from his lungs in the process before demanding, his voice a deep rumble, “Swear it.”

“I swear,” Dean breathes out against Castiel’s lips. “On my honor,” he adds, and Castiel smiles at him.

Dean keeps his word, and Castiel grows rather familiar with Dean’s bedroom. Of course, sometimes Dean comes to find Castiel in his room, but for the most part it’s on the blood-colored sheets of Dean’s bed that they blend into one. Dean is as merciless in making love as he is in making war, and it feels like both victory and defeat every time.

Sometimes Dean will not come to him for several nights in a row, until the desire builds insupportably. Dean still spends the occasional night away from home, coming back towards sunrise with bruised knuckles or a blood-covered sword, and Castiel smiles, because he knows that the next night Dean will be ruthless.

Sometimes they fight. Not often, but sometimes there is simply that undeniable energy in the room that spurs them both on until crushing themselves against each other and attempting to escape the irresistible force that pushes at both of them is not enough. Dean, Castiel finds, is as skilled at close combat, body to body and skin against skin, as he is with a sword. His own strength had always been with a blade, and he loses most of these matches. He relishes each defeat as he would relish a victory, especially when Dean lays claim to the body he has conquered. Castiel wins sometimes, of course, and those times Castiel relishes his victory, riding Dean with agonizing slowness as the man below him begs him for more.

Of course, there are still days when Castiel feels as if the world wants to stifle him. Though he spends hours with Dean, making love and making war, there are still hours without Dean, and their emptiness seems to hollow him out on the inside. He still wastes days away staring into the utter meaninglessness of his fate, and then his moments with Dean seem but a short reprieve from a long, dull reality of uselessness.

And then, of course, there are the cracks that appear in the idyllic façade that he and Dean build in their hours together, but Castiel long ago accepted that reality meant that everything in this world had flaws.

 

“Mine,” Dean breathes in the heat of passion on a night that follows too many for Castiel to count. The word is exhaled on a puff of air against Castiel’s sweaty skin. Buried inside the other man, Dean comes, claiming “mine” in word and in deed.

But, the climax of passion over, as the ecstasy of the moment fades away and the world falls into place all around him, he withdraws quietly, and Castiel notices his pained expression.

 “My Lord?” Castiel asks.

Dean shakes his head.

“You can never be mine.” He sits, staring out at the window where the mooonlight beat mercilessly down on the windowpanes, mocking him. “I claimed you as mine,” he says, chuckling bitterly.  
“I _own_ you. And for that reason, you can never truly be mine. Not in the way that matters, the way that is chosen.” He shakes his head. “In another life, perhaps – “

“Drop your nonsense,” Castiel cuts him off. Dean has claimed his body countless times, though he has never called Castiel “mine,” and Castiel had thought that Dean’s qualms were long buried. Apparently, though, they were still apt to rear their ugly heads.

 “Your language is poetic and flowery and I’m sure all your plays on words would make good melodrama, but it’s all utter nonsense,” Castiel continues, exasperated. “I _chose_ this.”

Dean shakes his head. “No.  You were given to me. You want me, have started to…care for me, even, perhaps, because I was better than what you expected in the circumstances, because the world threw us together and we made the best of it. But in another life, would you have even looked my way? If you had won the war, if you had never been captured, if we knew each other as enemy warriors rather than master and slave….” He trails off. There are so many ifs, and all of them sound ridiculous to Castiel. Have they not spent night after night together, in a willing lover’s embrace?

“I remarked you in battle, you know,” Castiel says. “When I faced you, there was something about you that drew me to you, made me wish to surrender to you. I am a warrior, Dean, and I do not surrender. But I almost wished to fall by your hand, because it would have been a spectacular end to my life, a fitting one.”

“Better than being stripped of all that you are and forced onto me?” Dean asks.

Castiel is quiet. He cannot lie to Dean.

“I would have preferred death to slavery, yes. But,” he adds, “I cannot say I regret knowing you.”

Dean looks down, playing with his hands. Castiel watches him, mesmerized. Dean has strong hands, the hands of a warrior used to wielding a blade, and he aches for those hands on his skin, using his body with the same skill with which he used a sword.

Castiel knows Dean understands, but it does not make the silence any less bitter.

…

Sometimes, though, it’s not just cracks that appear in the façade of the castle they’ve built in the air. Sometimes the foundation is ripped out from under it, or perhaps it is the cloud dissipating so that their castle can fall crumbling to the ground.

The man who reduces what they’ve built to broken stones on the ground is the king.

He comes to visit again, months after the first time. A numberless number of nights after Dean first claimed Castiel’s body. He comes alone this time, though that hardly makes him more bearable. He’s dressed just the way he was when Castiel first laid eyes on him, all intricate lace and shining adornments. The rubies on his sword try to glitter with a blood-red tint and Castiel represses the desire to sneer.

His visit is unexpected. Dean has eschewed court more than ever these past months, though that seems to have made him much more of a favorite than ever. The king’s knocking is insistent, and Dean’s servants, accustomed to greeting this royal visitor, usher him in with low bows. They had both heard the knock and the hushed whispers of “his majesty,” and Dean looks at Castiel sadly. He takes the collar, the same one Castiel had worn the last time and discarded the first second he could, from where he keeps it – locked away in a drawer to be taken out at the most necessary occasions. He offers it to Castiel with a silent apology, green eyes full of guilt.

Castiel bows his head, a clear invitation. Dean fastens the collar around his neck, and though his movements are gentle, Castiel has gotten good at telling when his every motion contains a seething rage. With a last glance back at him, Dean descends and Castiel sits on the bed, awaiting the inevitable summons. When they come, he traces Dean’s steps towards the room from which he hears the low voices of his master and his master’s king.

“Ah, yes, good,” the king says as soon as he notices Castiel. Next to him stands Dean, every fiber of his body tense as a coiled spring.

Castiel bows, keeping his eyes on the floor.

“I see your slave looks as attractive as ever,” the king drawls. “Well, Dean, I’m bored tonight. My mistress has gotten herself all worked up over nothing and she’s unbearable, and my friends have gone off on some escapade. So it falls to you to be my entertainment for the evening.”

With his eyes on the floor, Castiel cannot see Dean, but he can see in his mind’s eye the way Dean would react. A careful smile, which would turn into a disdainful smirk as Dean bows, and he knows his voice will be carefully devoid of intonation as he says “you honor me, your majesty.”

“Can I convince you to share your prize for the night? I’m sure by now he’s incredibly well-trained, and it would be a pleasure for me.”

Castiel’s eyes are still on the floor, but he knows rather than sees that Dean tenses even more, and he knows that a storm simmers below the surface.

“You know I can refuse your Majesty nothing,” Dean says, and Castiel reads in those words devoid of intonation his seething contempt.

The King chuckles. “You say that so contritely. You know you can always speak freely with me. Come, then. You’ll share in the festivities?”

“Of course,” Castiel hears the careful answer, laced with a reluctance only he could hear.

The king seems to know Dean’s home well, for he leads the way to one of the spare bedrooms without a moment’s hesitation. Dean follows him as he stomps his regal way up the staircase, and Castiel goes last, following Dean’s footsteps.

Dean and he had made love in this room once or twice, for what room and what bed had they not used? This one is decorated in dark blue, from the curtains to the drapery on the bed. He stands as he had before, head bowed, and feels Dean come to stand next to him. Dean runs a hand up his body, grabbing his hair and pulling it back.

“The _King,”_ Dean says, a slow emphasis on the word, “can be quite demanding. And if he’s not satisfied he’ll have your head, and possibly mine too. Understood?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

Dean releases him, and before he looks down he catches the satisfied smile on the king’s blotchy face.

“Undress,” Dean orders, and as he obeys, Dean asks

“How would you like him, your Majesty?”

“Well….” The king drawls, though Castiel has absolutely no doubt that he’s made up his mind before he even arrived. “I think since we’re sharing, both of us should have him, yes? One from each end. Yes, I think that’s what we’ll do.”

Dean approaches him where he stands, naked, head still bowed. He runs a hand up Castiel’s body, ostensibly possessive, but Castiel had always found Dean’s possessive touches the most comforting. Dean, of course, knows this.

 “A fine idea, your Majesty,” Dean responds, his fingers tweaking a nipple playfully as he converses. Castiel looks at the floor and focuses on Dean’s touch, follows Dean’s fingers as his master trails them – absently, for all intents and purposes – over his body. He feels a weight on his shoulder – Dean’s hand, pushing him down, and lowers himself to his knees.

“Hands and knees, Castiel,” Dean orders, and he obeys. The floor is covered with a plush rug, soft against his naked skin, but it does nothing for how vulnerable he feels. More than vulnerable, humiliated. This is what he had expected in his first days of coming here, but the past weeks with Dean had washed that expectation away until he had all but forgotten that it had once been a very distinct possibility. He forces himself to accept the reality he had once prepared himself for.

He hears the king’s footstep as the man comes to stand behind him. “Open him up for me,” comes the order, and he feels Dean kneel behind him. One of Dean’s hands lands on his hip, another possessive gesture, as Dean inserts finger after finger. He is neither careful nor slow, though by now Castiel’s body has grown accustomed to this habitual invasion. Castiel feels barely prepared before the king orders “enough” and Dean withdraws. He hears the other man kneel behind him and grits his teeth as he forces his way in. His body protests, stretched too wide too quickly, and he bites back a groan. He was used to pain, and would take it as any wound in battle.

Distracted, Castiel hardly notices as Dean kneels before him. He doesn’t dare raise his head to Dean’s eyes, though he has no doubt of what he would see in them. He feels Dean’s hand in his hair, grasping it roughly as his erection presses against Castiel’s mouth. Castiel opens obediently and feels Dean slide all the way in. It’s unexpected and he coughs and sputters, eliciting a hearty chuckle from the man behind him.

Then they start moving. Dean retains his grasp on Castiel’s hair as he thrusts in, quickly and completely, causing him to cough and choke. But this, at least, is Dean, and he convinces himself that he is simply claiming Castiel’s body in another way.

The man behind him, however, is another matter. This one feels like an invasion, a claim laid where it is not deserved. That man forces himself in roughly, burying himself inside as if _he_ owned Castiel, and Castiel’s body protests with pain as his mind protests with indignation. His hands trail over Castiel’s skin, leaving marks and reveling in their freedom, and Castiel longs to fight, to throw off that touch before it stains him. The king grunts as an animal and moans obscenely, and Castiel wishes he could close his mind to those sounds.

Thankfully, it is short. The “king” – Castiel knows his title is king, but he does not think of him as such – comes first, filling Castiel as if he can claim him with that mark. Castiel hears him moan in satisfaction before withdrawing. Dean takes longer, his hips still rocking back and forth as his king watches. Then Dean’s hand tightens in his hair, almost imperceptibly, and Castiel knows what to expect as Dean empties himself. Castiel swallows it down obediently.

He hears the king hum in approval.

“I must say, I’m not disappointed,” he drawls. “I was told he was quite the fighter. I’m impressed at how well you’ve managed to make him behave, but then again, you always were an impressive man, Dean.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.”

Castiel remains still, his position the same, though his limbs soon begin to protest. He begins to suspect it will be a long night as the king seats himself in a plush armchair, temporarily satisfied.

“Castiel.” Dean’s voice rings out, dropping his name as an order, and he raises his hand to see Dean beckon. Glad to stand up, he approaches, and Dean designates the floor. He kneels beside the chair Dean has seated himself in, and feel’s Dean’s hand in his hair again.

They talk of other things, Dean attempting to the utmost to regale the petulant monarch with stories, questions, and sometimes – ideas. It works for the most part, the king joining in the conversation as they throw back and forth tales of war and, sometimes, stories of court life. Several times, however, the king insists on interrupting the conversation, however, for a small break to “satisfy the body as well as the mind.” Castiel kneels before him then, eyes lowered and hands crossed behind his back. He opens his mouth and the king uses it mercilessly. Dean sometimes follows him, for appearances, Castiel knows, must be kept up.

It is with the approach of dawn that the king finally leaves. Castiel waits as Dean escorts him downstairs, all low bows and polite words as he wishes the monarch a pleasant morning. Castiel dons his clothes as he waits for Dean to return, though he would rather bathe and bathe, but he can hardly speak to Dean naked.

Dean, however, does not come to find him. Instead, he sends a page, who informs him that his master suggests that he wash and don fresh clothes. He obeys, relieved to sink into the hot water, and thinks. Not that there is much to think about. He does not blame Dean. He had been almost as much of an unwilling participant as Castiel, and Dean only wonders how it is that the king has not yet remarked Dean’s disinterest in his friendship? Then again, Dean’s façade, as Castiel has learned, is elaborate, and he has no doubt that throwing a king’s friendship in his face could end with a beheading. Especially when the reigning monarch was such as he was.

He feels barely cleaner when he’s done, but forces himself to rise out of the tub and don fresh clothes. He takes off his collar and places it where Dean had taken it from. By this time the sun has already risen, and Castiel wonders where Dean is. He waits, but Dean does not come, and finally, he goes to bed.

When he wakes, the sun reminds him that it’s midday. Rising, he wanders around the house, but his master is nowhere in sight. He inquires, and is told the master is not at home. He sighs and attempts to settle down to a task Dean had set him several days ago – a translation, but his body is sore and his mind cannot concentrate. The hours pass slowly by, and he sees hide nor hair of Dean.

When he sees Dean return, from the window of his room, he expects the man to come find him, but Dean does not. In fact, Dean completely avoids him. He spends little time at the house, and the hours he does spend there, he locks himself in the study and library. If he ever passes Castiel in the hallway, he averts his eyes and pretends to be in a hurry.

The whole charade is overly familiar to Castiel, and this time it only takes him two days to become fed up with it before he storms into Dean’s bedroom. Dean had evidently thought Castiel was asleep, or busy with a task at the other end of the house, for he turns in surprise.

“Dean,” Castiel says, deliberately eschewing all titles.

Dean avoids looking at him, though at least he doesn’t storm away with an excuse.

He approaches. This, he realizes, is not going to be an easy conversation.

“Dean,” he says again, and Dean’s eyes flicker to his face. Finally.

“What’s there to say, Cas?”

“I don’t blame you,” he says quietly.

“You should.”

Castiel shakes his head.

“It wasn’t your fault. You had no part in it.”

Dean chuckles bitterly.

“No part? I let him rape you, Cas. Watched him do it. _Helped_ him do it.”

“What would he have done if you had refused?”

Dean stares at him. Considers for a moment.

“Knowing him and his whims? I don’t know. He had all of a man’s property forcibly taken from him once for refusing to attend a ball. But I’m not some courtier, Cas. He owes me parts of his kingdom. He wouldn’t just take.”

“I do not know him as well as you, but he seems like the kind of man who will have what he wants and only pretends that you have the right to say no.”

“Yes, he is, but – damn it, Cas. That doesn’t make any of it _better!”_ Dean paces about, punching a wall and wincing. “If this were any other man, I would find a reason to drive a blade through his heart, but this is the one man in the kingdom I cannot touch.”

“Dean.” Castiel is calm. It’s almost as if, he thinks, Dean has taken all the anger in the room and bottled it up in himself, leaving Castiel with nothing but soft words to convince the raging man before him. “I am a slave.” The word is still bitter in his mouth, even after all these months, but he forces himself to say it. “There is absolutely nothing you can do about that fact. The way of the world is such, and I know you hate it, as do I, but you cannot change it. Do not blame yourself for the things it is out of your power to control.”

“I know, Cas,” Dean says, quiet this time. “But don’t you _see_? The thing we had, where we forgot everything around us, it can’t be. We can pretend, but reality will always come to wake us from our dream. We were so stupid, Cas! I thought that if I treated you like an equal the world might forget that you weren’t, but the world can’t let it happen, and how do I live with that, Cas? How do I live with that, and look you in the eyes, knowing all that you are and unable to give you the freedom to be that?” Dean paces excitedly, fervently, up and down as he talks, one sentence flowing into another as he seems unable to stop himself.

“I can’t have you again,” Dean says, and Castiel feels like Dean has quietly driven a sword through his heart. “I can’t, not after what happened.” It’s always those words with Dean as he looks at Castiel, always that miserable “I can’t,” and it infuriates Castiel.

Castiel slams him against the wall.

 “I want you,” he demands, just as he had the last time.

“Yeah?” Dean’s voice is bitter, disbelieving. This is not how this conversation was supposed to go, Castiel can sense it. He knows that Dean means to push him away, that he does not mean to blurt out “Then take me.”

“With pleasure,” Castiel replies, claiming Dean’s lips before he can hear further protests. He holds Dean against the wood paneling, kissing him mercilessly. Dean was _his,_ a much more willing possession than Castiel had ever been.

Deftly, Castiel’s fingers unlace Dean’s doublet, rip off his shirt to bare a muscular torso. He claims this skin just as he claimed Dean’s lips, with bites and kisses, and Dean merely leans his head against the paneling and moans as Castiel sucks bruises into his collarbone. “Mine,” he murmurs, and Dean moans in agreement, all protests forgotten at the feel of Castiel’s lips.

When Castiel gets tired of the wall, he pulls Dean over to the bed; Dean goes willingly, falls willingly onto the soft sheets when Castiel throws him, and his eyes beg Castiel to consume him. Perhaps Dean thinks that he can purify himself of the guilt and the regret with pain and defeat. He offers his body almost as penance, and Castiel takes it. Castiel forces his body open, sees the master below him wince and groan and forces himself in. He makes love mercilessly, and Dean begs and pleads, and whether they are pleas to stop or to continue forever, Castiel does not know and does not care. He forces everything from his mind but the sensation of using the body before him, forgets everything but the pleasure he takes by force.

Dean comes untouched.

“Mine,” Castiel claims as he watches Dean climax, and Dean murmurs thoughtlessly in response, “Yours.” He hears Castiel’s intake of breath, and looks up at the man who stares down at him, surprised to hear the confirmation of the claims he’s been making.

“You mean it?” he asks, as if, after this, they need confirmation.  

“Yes.” The word is sincere, and Castiel loves it more than all the moans and murmurs he’s evoked from Dean in the heat of passion. Dean, too, looks happy, purified of the pain and regrets on his face. They lie next to each other on the bed after that, a calm silence settling over both.

 “Cas,” Dean says after a while, and Castiel turns to look at him.

Dean sits up.

“Are you happy?” he asks, staring intently at Castiel.

Castiel sits up too. He doesn’t know how to have this conversation, so he looks down, plays with his hands.

Dean takes one look at him before saying, “I understand. You were not made for this life, wiling your days away like a kept mistress. You were meant to fight, and to live, not to stagnate.” There’s almost pity in his eyes.

Castiel sighs. He does not like to hurt Dean.

“I am glad to have known you. I have grown to need you, but at the same time there are days when there is an emptiness that we cannot fill, not even together.”

Dean ponders this for a moment. “I’d set you free if I could, you know. I can’t do that, of course, kingly gift and all, but I can’t bear you living this life, Cas. Wasting away like this. And if he demands you again, Cas, I won’t be able to do anything to prevent it….. I could arrange for you to escape.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I have nowhere to go. The land I belonged to belongs to your king now, and my people are captives. My home is likely destroyed. The war did not just take my freedom. It took my life without giving me death.”

 “You could go somewhere new,” he offers. “Travel. Become a sword for hire. It’s hardly as honorable as what you had, but it’s a better life than wasting away. Hell, Cas, _I_ sometimes feel like I’m wasting away here, and for you it must be …I can’t even imagine.” Dean looks deeply, deeply sad. “I could arrange it. Give you money to go far, far away, where no one will ever catch you.”

Castiel looks at him, surprised, pleased, though a sadness gnaws at him at the suggestion.

 “You would do that for me?”

Dean nods. “I can’t watch you waste away your youth and your radiance. God, Cas, I still remember that first time I saw you in battle. I loved what I saw. I can’t destroy it by keeping you here.”

 “If I go, will I ever see you again?” he asks.

Dean shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe? Perhaps our paths will cross, you going one way and me another.”

Castiel takes Dean’s hands in his own. “Thank you, Dean. So much. You understand, better than any other man would, what freedom means. I am tempted to go, but I will take a day to consider.”

Dean nods. “Of course.” Castiel swears his voice goes a little hoarse as he makes out the next few words. “Just let me know.”

Castiel spends most of the day assuming he will go, Dean spends most of the day assuming Castiel will leave him, and an uncomfortable silence hangs around the house. They don’t speak to each other. Castiel wanders the halls that have become familiar to him. He tries to feel regret for leaving them but cannot bring himself to. He hates these walls. They stifle him.

He walks past Dean’s room, and pausing there, he’s hit with the first pang of regret. He does not regret leaving this place, but he does regret leaving Dean. Dean, who had not just been a kind master, but the man, Castiel thought, who was fashioned from the same material as him. Their minds and thoughts were so often intertwined that he often felt that they were one being, split into two pieces and deluded into a conviction of self-sufficiency. He remembers Dean’s skin, pressed against him, remembers the feel of the man’s scars, remembers Dean trailing his fingers over the memories of his own wounds.

He walks away. The thoughts of Dean tether him, but the rope is not strong enough to remain unbroken. He cannot waste his life away in a bed, even if it with a man who feels like his other half.

Dean spends his day wandering around his land and whacking bushes with his sword. He wants Castiel to stay. Castiel has wormed his way into him and Dean can’t let go. But he doesn’t want Castiel to stay, because he knows the man Castiel is, and asking him to stay here, as he is, would be like hiding a priceless painting in a dusty attic, like shutting sunlight away from newly-bloomed flowers, like burying gemstones in dirty earth and throwing away the map.

“If you love it, let it go,” he’s heard. The love word is one neither of them have uttered, though it hangs in the air sometimes, an unspoken question mark. He thinks it might apply sometimes, and there are days when he hazards a hope that Castiel would use that word in relation to his own feelings too.

But if he lets it go, he has the utmost certainty it will never return.

Nevertheless.

If he loves it for what it is, he cannot destroy its essence. This he knows. Better to lose it himself than to let it be lost forever to all the world.

And besides. That night. That one night, when the man he had thought of as his, not because he owned him, but because this man was _his…_ that one night, he had had him taken away. He could not protect him. Could not live with him as an equal. He did not deserve Castiel at that price.

He prepares himself mentally. He knows what Castiel will choose, and in the unlikely event caused by a one-in-a-million alignment of stars that Cas chooses to stay, Dean knows what to tell him. He has to make him go. He won’t be able to live with himself and his guilt otherwise.

“Dean.”

He turns. Castiel stands behind him. They’re in a clearing, nothing in the silence but the slow song of the swaying trees around them.

“Well?” He asks.

“I will take my freedom, if you are still willing to give it.”

Dean nods. He expected this, had spent the day mentally prepared, but his throat and his eyes burn nevertheless.

“Of course,” he says.

And so they prepare for Castiel to leave. Dean gives him money, more than Castiel would need, probably, but Dean will hear no discussions on that subject. He gives Castiel a sword, and they arrange for a time when the guards will be conveniently not at their posts. And then the night comes when Castiel must leave. Dean escorts him as far as he can, knowing it is dangerous, knowing that he might be seen, and then what would they all think of him aiding his own slave in escaping? But he has to take this chance for a goodbye, for what he knows will be a final farewell pressed against this man’s lips.

 “Come with me,” Castiel murmurs against his lips. It’s a last minute plea, breathless, as he’s about to disappear into the dark for the last time.

“What?”

“Come with me. You’re wasting away here too. Come _live_ with me,” he offers.

Dean stares at him. He opens his mouth to protest, but all the words crumble away.

“We can fight side by side,” Castiel continues. “You and me.”

 “Equals,” he adds, and that’s the word that has Dean sold.

“You would want that?” he asks.

Castiel nods. “Of course.”

This is the bit where they probably should kiss once again, spontaneously, passionately, under an open sky, pledging life and love to each other forever in the windswept night.

It’s exactly what they do.

Their kiss is deep, and long, and passionate and hungry, and they cling to each other when they break apart, as if they need to breathe each other rather than the air around them.

“Together,” Dean agrees.

Together they ride off into a new life. Equals, as they had begun.

 

 


End file.
